“Since literally right now!” I said. “Every time you talk, it’s to tell me about all the ways I’m not enough! I don’t work hard enough! I don’t dress well enough! Even the things I care about—they’re not important enough!”
“I promise you, if you can come up with one thought that is worthwhile on your own, I will listen to you! But, look at you, even now, behaving like a child! Like you still haven’t figured out how the world works—”
That was it.
“Oh, forget this,” I spat, and hung up. My brain felt like it was vibrating inside my skull. Before I could get barraged with a series of outraged calls and voicemails accusing me of disrespect, I scrolled to my parents’ contact information and hit “block.” The twinge of guilt I felt was overshadowed by the heat of my rage.
Twenty-five years old, and I was still living with this shit. I buried my face in my hands, surprised to find that they didn’t come away wet. Normally, conflict with my parents inspired tears almost immediately, but what I felt today wasn’t my typical shame. It was righteousness. After all, I had done nothing out of step. My entire life, I had been obedient. I had joined the clubs they’d told me to join, hung out with the friends they approved of, avoided boys when they said boys were bad, sought them out when they decided they were necessary. I had gotten into one of the Top Colleges and then a Name Brand Medical School, and my parents had accepted the awe and envy of the Naperville Ghanaian community but given none of the credit to me. But of course they didn’t. Momma had said it herself—none of what had made me successful had been my idea, because my ideas were stupid and childish. My malleability hadn’t earned me their respect; their expectations had only gotten more granular over the years, more unyielding.
But I had to draw the line sometime. Why it had to be now, in the locker room of King Spa, with a boy wringing his hands waiting for me just outside, I didn’t know. It was like third year of medical school had stripped me of my last remaining pretenses. And so, if my parents were going to forget that I was an adult, I would have to remind them what they had to lose.
Ricky was sitting on a couch outside the women’s locker room when I finally emerged some twenty minutes later. In the aftermath of my Declaration of Independence, I’d forgotten that I was mad at him, and the expression he gave me as I approached, like a dejected puppy, furthered his case.
“Hey,” I said. “Sorry I was gone a while.”
Ricky stretched out like a cat.
“It’s all right,” he said, yawning. Then, noticing my stony expression: “Everything okay?”
I shrugged. I felt drunk, my hold on my body tenuous in the aftermath of my emotional onslaught. I wavered on my feet, then sat down.
“Ha. Not really,” I said honestly. I gave him a small smile. “Just had a massive fight with my parents. You know. Same old, same old.”
“Again?” Ricky said, shaking his head. When I shrugged, he leaned back on the sofa. “Well. We are conveniently right next to something that could help you cool off—”
His eyes darted to the Ice Room.
“Absolutely not,” I said, wagging my finger at him in warning. “You are not taking me back into that torture chamber!”
Ricky laughed.
“No, no,” he said, then pointed with his chin to the upper level of the spa. “There’s a few meditation rooms up there. Maybe we can sit there. Breathe out all of our negative emotions.” The creases around his eyes softened. “We probably need it.”
The meditation room was composed of several long mats separated by six-inch-tall wooden partitions. Red “ion” lights—purported to have a number of questionable health benefits, including the ability to reduce cholesterol, diminish wrinkles, and cure insomnia—were housed in wooden fixtures over each mat. The space was empty but for an old man snoring in the corner with a towel over his eyes. Upstairs, the din of the spa felt far away, drowned out by a tranquil harp soundtrack. I took a deep breath, filling my lungs with the thick, herbal air. Ricky did the same beside me.
“What is that smell?” I said. It felt heady, like I was steeping in a hot cup of tea.
“Jasmine, I think.” He gestured for me to walk ahead of him, watching as I sidled from row to row before deciding on a mat. “Not near the exit this time?” he teased.
“Nah,” I said. “No danger of traumatizing the general public in this place.”
I dropped down onto the mat and stretched, noting how Ricky averted his eyes as he arranged himself on the mat next to me. Then, I tucked my head under the wooden fixture that housed the ion lights. A second later, Ricky slid his head under to join me. His face landed closer than I expected, just inches away. Drenched in red light, I felt like we were tucked away somewhere alien, drifting together on a distant planet. I laughed; my fingers curled nervously on the mat next to my face.